


a plastic sort of love

by aijee



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, M/M, Pining, Slice of Life, doll!gyu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 04:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15477678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aijee/pseuds/aijee
Summary: “I can feel,” says the stranger, eyelashes fluttering about as he takes it upon himself to non-consensually grope the fabric of Wonwoo’s over-washed hoodie. “I can feel.”“That’s ironic,” Wonwoo says dryly, “Considering you were a piece of plastic five minutes ago.”





	a plastic sort of love

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by that one lindsay lohan/tyra banks movie—but asian (which obviously means a _lot_ more drama and Strong Feelings)

“I don't know where the artificial stops and the real starts.”

Andy Warhol

 

* * *

 

“What—”

When Wonwoo decided to babysit his cousin over the summer, he was worried it was going to be boring.

“—the fuck.”

Turns out he was wrong.

“Whadda hut?” Soojin babbles from the carpet.

Wonwoo would be more worried about possibly teaching a three-year-old a swear word (his aunt is definitely going to kill him when she gets back) if not for the tall, unrealistically ( _objectively_ , Wonwoo insists) beautiful man standing in the middle of the living room.

“I’m…alive?” says the stranger, slowly, as if cohering sounds and thought for the first time. He looks at his hands like they aren’t real. “Are these…mine?”

“They are,” Wonwoo answers carefully, “Look, I know this all seems pretty jarring—”

“And these,” a couple hops, a couple leg wiggles, “are also mine?”

“ _Yes_ , everything attached to you is yours. Crazy, I know, but—”

Then the guy starts jumping around like some prepubescent manchild and Wonwoo decides that he has just about _had it_.

“I’m alive! Oh my goodness, I can speak! I can move! I can— I can—”

“What you can do is zip your lip for a fucking second,” Wonwoo interrupts, on the brink of popping a vein because _Jesus_ he signed up to be a side character, not the protagonist. “First of all, do you even know what the hell you—”

Before Wonwoo can finish, the stranger suddenly rushes into Wonwoo’s _very_ personal bubble, places his hands on Wonwoo’s cheeks, and sets his face only a breath’s inch away from Wonwoo’s face with a dictionary-definition expression of pure, unadulterated awe.

Unblemished skin. Deep, dark eyes. Silky hair. Soft lips. The line between believable and unrealistic has never been so frighteningly bridgeable.

“I can feel,” says the stranger, eyelashes fluttering about as he takes it upon himself to non-consensually grope the fabric of Wonwoo’s over-washed hoodie. “I can _feel.”_

“That’s ironic,” Wonwoo says dryly, “Considering you were a piece of plastic five minutes ago.”

Excitement immediately falls from the stranger’s face, and Wonwoo almost considers feeling bad if not for the trauma this entire situation must be giving Soojin. Wonwoo himself, too, of course, but mostly Soojin.

Mingyu glances at her, and she seems stunned. Her usually expressive demeanor (and, more often than not, explosive physical reactions) has been effectively doused by the glitter and smoke of this trespasser in her territory.

Wonwoo steps forward to pick her up. But then she turns away and starts crawling towards—

“What is my name?” asks the doll-man as he stares at the numbers and letters and lines blackening the underside of his arm. His voice is lukewarm, like coffee left on a frigid counter, untouched.

Wonwoo studies him, unsure of how to proceed. “Mingyu,” he answers finally, pointing at the plastic box on the rug. That very name letters the box’s front face in gold, sweeping cursive. Phrases such as _Limited-edition Barbie doll!_ and _A true Korean gentleman!_ decorate the thin cardboard frame.

Mingyu glances at Wonwoo, then at the box, then back at Wonwoo with an inscrutable expression. The plastic blankness in Mingyu’s face does not betray what he probably wants to say.

All of a sudden, Soojin starts bawling and clawing at the bottom of Mingyu’s slacks, wanting desperately to be lifted from the ground and held by this otherworldly stranger.

It annoys Wonwoo just how unconcerned Mingyu seems to be, like a perfect statue, an idealized impression of beauty entirely uncompelled by the trivial woes of man—including the incomprehensible, almost brutish cries of a mere child. These days, marble and stone have become plastic and metal wiring. Wonwoo shouldn’t be so surprised.

And then he sees it.

“Hello there.” Mingyu reaches down and picks Soojin up, cradling her perfectly in his arms. His smile is nothing but sweet and kind. “Nice to meet you.”

Wonwoo sees the flash of unadulterated worry, protectiveness, and love in Mingyu’s empty eyes.

 _Too young_ , Wonwoo thinks offhandedly at the sight before him, followed by, _I guess they both are._

 

 

 

In retrospect, Wonwoo admits that he might not have been in the best, or the most courteous, attitude while welcoming The Doll Man.

“And _that’s_ why you’re not a creative major,” comments Jihoon. “What year are you in? 2000?”

“Well, creative majors don’t pay the taxes,” Wonwoo shoots back. “Now shut up and help me deal with this situation.”

Who is he kidding? How could anyone possibly deal with a zero-year-old adult?

Jihoon sips primly at his iced tea. “As if I'd know what the fuck to do. I don't deal with inanimate objects defying laws of reality on a daily basis. I didn’t even like Toy Story.”

“I don’t know you anymore.”

“Ever since the last homecoming karaoke: me too, bitch.”

Wonwoo groans and drops his head into his textbook. “Why does this always happen to me?”

“Because under all the salt and citric acid is a soft and gooey center. Breaking news! Local emo kid actually loves kids and cares for people,” Jihoon says with a smile that is anything but reassuring. “Kudos to you for taking the brunt of the cosmos’ miscalculations. I’m sure you’re rising up the waitlist for heaven.”

“Take me now, oh sweet release of death,” Wonwoo hisses at the sky.

 

 

 

Wonwoo is willing, though begrudgingly, to admit to himself that living with Mingyu isn’t so bad. In fact, Wonwoo would dare say that Mingyu is a better roommate than Jun was. (Not that Jun would disagree, honestly.)

Mingyu is just as the box prescribes.

Gentlemanly. Considerate. A “do-it-all dreamboat” who has laundry cleaned and meals prepared every day. (Note the quotations because those are  _not_ Wonwoo’s words.) Wonwoo can’t even  deny how well Mingyu cares for Soojin, who herself can never seem to get enough of her new dashing caretaker.

A roommate who can do all that _and_ be incredibly good-looking without whispering it in Chinese at a mirror with finger guns makes for admirable conduct in Wonwoo’s book.

Mingyu is so fucking perfect,and Wonwoo almost falls for it.

“Is something wrong?” Mingyu asks, catching on to Wonwoo’s intense, and objectively rude, staring.

Mingyu is cooking dinner again as Wonwoo is working on some flashcards on the coffee table nearby. The radio was on until Wonwoo arrived, later than usual, and Soojin fell asleep ages ago.

“Are you not—oh, _I don’t know_ —worried at all? Or curious about,” Wonwoo twirls a hand in the air, “whatever this is?”

All Wonwoo gets is a confused, annoyingly handsome look.

“The fact that you were a doll,” Wonwoo clarifies, frustrated. “And now you’re not. Or maybe you still are. It’s hard to tell.”

“Does my presence make you uncomfortable?” Mingyu asks, more inquisitive than insulted. “Am I not human enough?”

He’s human enough to avoid answering questions, clearly. Wonwoo sighs. “Do you eat?” he asks as he clears the coffee table for Mingyu to set up dinner.

“No,” Mingyu answers, serene.

“Do you sleep?”

“I have no need for it.”

“Do you use the bathroom?”

“I clean it when it is dirty, or when I need to brush my hair.”

Wonwoo looks up from his flashcards, meeting Mingyu’s unburdened gaze halfway.

For a thick moment, the shards of white gleam in Mingyu’s hair, the brushed flush on his cheeks, perhaps even that typical smile of his appear stamped-on and unnatural. That they are all testaments to the artificiality of the bones and muscle and flesh standing on the other side of the coffee table.

Dolls are impersonal, a decorative ornament that reflects both fantasy and commercial greed. It’s the twenty-first century. Dreams aren’t hard to sell.

But it would be wrong to look at Mingyu—to look at his wide, honest eyes and perpetually warm smile—and think such a thing without deeming that judgment harsh. Criminal.

“Based on your expression,” Mingyu says, throat tightening almost imperceptibly, “I guess that my answers fail to support my case.”

Wonwoo abandons _Can you really feel anything?_ at the back of his throat. It doesn’t feel appropriate to say.

He sighs again. This could be a lot worse, he supposes.

“Thanks for the meal. Again,” Wonwoo says, inclining his head.

Mingyu reciprocates as usual. It’s unnecessary, Wonwoo has always pointed out, but Mingyu does it anyway.

“Hey,” Wonwoo calls out before Mingyu can walk away. “Sit with me. I have an exam coming up and need someone to quiz me.”

For a moment, they each do nothing but stare at each other, Mingyu with eyes stretched to their signature wideness, and Wonwoo stewing in his unease at saying something so out of place. After cooking, Mingyu usually leaves to wash Soojin or listen to the radio’s newest pop hits. But this evening seems reserved for just the two of them.

Slowly, Mingyu retraces his steps. “You are welcome,” he says softly, taking a seat in front of Wonwoo. “Is that response correct?”

Wonwoo can’t help but crack a grin, which Mingyu immediately mirrors.

“You’re learning fast.”

“I do my best.”

“I’m glad that those cookbooks aren’t just sitting around and avoiding rent anymore. My parents send me one every Christmas for some reason.”

“Maybe your parents want you to cook?”

“If so, then they’re grossly overestimating the time I have on my hands,” Wonwoo grumbles through a mouthful of rice. “Cooking is right between ‘going to the gym’ and ‘learning to love Investment Management’ on my priorities list. Those items quite low. If it wasn’t clear.”

When Mingyu laughs, Wonwoo realizes that it’s the first time he’s ever heard Mingyu laugh.

The sound is full and oddly boisterous, far too boyish compared to the edged lines and soft features carved onto Mingyu’s face. More than anything, it’s the authenticity that surprises Wonwoo, but he catches himself before any voyeuristic shadows have the pleasure of noticing his interest.

“How is dinner?” Mingyu asks after his last few wheezes.

“Good,” Wonwoo says, nodding, maybe a little light-headed. “It’s all good. Now make yourself useful and grab those flashcards, will you?”

 

 

 

(“A children’s story? Soojin still confuses blue with yellow.”

“It’s for _you_ , you dunce,” Jihoon snaps, more earnest than sharp as his words usually are. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

The library book is clearly vintage and curling at the edges from age. Wonwoo has read a few of Rumer Godden’s works, but not this one— _The Doll’s House_.)

 

 

 

It takes two weeks of keeping Mingyu a secret from the rest of the world before Wonwoo cracks from the guilt of putting something (someone?) under house arrest despite Mingyu having done nothing to deserve it.

Wonwoo supposes he hasn’t done anything justifiably terrible to feel so guilty, either, but he’s also done an incredible _nothing_ to fix The Situation. A little guilt isn’t unwarranted.

“Wow, so this is, as you call it,” Mingyu pauses for amazement, “a mall?”

“You bet.” Wonwoo adjusts the hood of Soojin’s stroller, trying his best to distract himself from the stares. “It’s got food, clothes, every other arbitrary and potentially frivolous thing you could possibly want within crawling distance of each other.”

“Crawling?”

Wonwoo nods solemnly. That was a bad Friday night.

“First, we’re going to get you some new clothes,” Wonwoo says. “You’re too…long to fit in mine.”

“But I like your clothes.” Mingyu’s earnest tone is disconcerting. “No matter how many times I clean them, they always smell like you! And you smell nice.”

Was Wonwoo’s mouth always this dry? “There’s a sale at Uniqlo,” he manages. “Just follow me and try to keep your mouth shut.”

Verbally-enforced muteness, Wonwoo should’ve expected, ends up having zero influence on curious, sparkly, princely gazes, which Mingyu is absolutely overflowing with today. What a tool. Literally. He’s like a magnet specifically made for attracting the interest of others with a pulling strength that could produce its own tides.

“They’ve got a kid. Are they a couple?”

“Pst, look over there. That tan guy is crazy handsome.”

“Shit, those looks are  _unreal_.”

“Is he an idol?”

Before the attention and unsolicited stares strangle Wonwoo to death, a hand on his shoulder startles out a sharp inhale. He didn’t know he was holding his breath at all.

“Wonwoo?” Mingyu says only loud enough for two people to hear. “Maybe we should go home. I can draw you a bath? Or I can cook you something.”

Wonwoo’s chest fills with smoke and mirrors, and he can’t even begin to explain why.

He turns his head, tries to offer a curt “no” so he can move on with his life and finish what should’ve been finished a long time ago. But the response is too small, conviction too weak, for it to leave Wonwoo’s mouth when faced so closely with something (someone, someone?) literally molded from idealism.

“I,” Wonwoo starts, thoughts dissolving as quickly as they are conjured. “I’m okay. Let’s just, the Uniqlo, new clothes—”

“Ice cream!” Soojin cries from the stroller. “I want ice cream!”

“Me too! Ice cream, ice cream!” Mingyu mimics, petulance so obviously fabricated as to make Wonwoo cringe in embarrassment—which is quickly overturned by a tired grin.

The curve is reflected, if not magnified tenfold, on Mingyu’s face. “I made you smile. Your smile is so nice.”

“You don’t even eat anything,” Wonwoo chides as he kneels in front of Soojin and strokes her head to calm her down.

“I do not,” affirms Mingyu, pushing the stroller by the time Wonwoo is standing again. “But accompanying others when they eat helps comfort them, correct?”

Wonwoo walks ahead, runs his fingers through his hair and hopes that that’s enough to cover the tips of his ears.

Someone is learning too quickly. Wonwoo wishes he could say that it’s himself.

 

 

 

After the mall, Wonwoo insists on doing the laundry while Mingyu goes off to tend to Soojin’s sugar crash.

Without thinking, he lifts the shirt Mingyu wore to his nose.

Mingyu was right. The clothes really do smell like Wonwoo, and only Wonwoo.

 

 

 

(“It is an anxious, sometimes a dangerous thing to be a doll. Dolls cannot choose; they can only be chosen; they cannot 'do'; they can only be done by.”)

 

 

 

“How long do you think this will last?”

Wonwoo looks up from the puzzle he’s trying to solve with Soojin. The outer edges were simple enough, but everything in the middle just looks like a jumble of varnished cardboard pieces. Poor Peppa Pig.

“How long do I think what will last?” Wonwoo echoes. Soojin is, understandably, almost asleep on his lap. “My student loans? The days until the next season of Game of Thrones? Hell, I’d like to know, too.”

Mingyu tries out a laugh. It doesn’t fit, like a frame absurdly large for the photo; the sound is ruthless on Wonwoo’s ears.

“I mean…this,” Mingyu says, gesturing at the three of them.

“You sound like you want to stick around.”

“I do.”

“You sure? Soojin is, like, the ultimate hungry, poopy toddler. I feel like she was a pair of twins at some point which later became one monster baby.”

After setting up dinner, Mingyu sits next to Wonwoo on the floor. He caresses the top of Soojin’s head, twisting his fingers through her wispy tufts of hair.

“I enjoy taking care of her.” There’s a confession in there. “And I like it here. I do not want to go.” And another one.

Wonwoo’s mouth has no words, so his eyes search for them instead. They sweep over the dinner-laden coffee table and the rising steam, over the drying dishes in the kitchen and the mixture of fingerprints on the microwave window. He looks at Mingyu, stubbornly still in Wonwoo’s old clothes, with a poker face in what’s slowly becoming a losing game.

Wonwoo’s mouth twitches. “You’ve got some pretty high standards, huh?”

“I would like to think I do. Oh.”

Mingyu looks mildly alarmed. He gets up quickly to leave, but doesn’t, or rather can’t, move.

“Wonwoo?”

It takes a second for Wonwoo to realize that he’d grabbed Mingyu’s wrist. He quickly pulls away. “Sorry.”

“I just need to check how much longer the dryer is going to run,” Mingyu explains, smiling as amiably as ever. “I will be back soon.”

When Mingyu disappears, Wonwoo holds Soojin close. Her breathing is shallow and unbothered.

“I’m not sure how much longer,” Wonwoo tells himself. “I wish I did.”

The lie is poorly executed, defaced by a truth Wonwoo doesn’t admit until now. In the back of his head, he knows how bad an idea it is to accept Mingyu’s show of vulnerability. They’ll be hurt. That is a given. After all, beauty in impermanence is never without sorrow after the passing; this is the nature of man and the empathy he is cursed with.

Wonwoo prides himself in his reticence and cultivated wit, in his ability to control the emotions he dispenses—no, the control is over how much he dispenses.

The emotions themselves, well, are a testament to how fiercely cursed Wonwoo must be.

 

 

 

The day Wonwoo’s aunt arrives from her business trip to pick up Soojin, Mingyu asks he can stay in Wonwoo’s room from now on. Mingyu usually stays with Soojin, just in case she wakes up. But there is no Soojin now.

It is this night that Wonwoo and Mingyu have the following conversation:

“If you don’t need to sleep, then what do you do?”

“I wait.”

“For what?”

“For you to wake up."

"Really?"

"Or for Soojin to start crying.”

“Sounds tiring.”

“Sleeping is also waiting.”

“Yeah, but I’m unconscious.”

“I am unconscious, too, I suppose.”

“Then why do you always keep the lights on? Or play music when I’m away?”

“I just…I just like it that way.”

 

 

 

(“‘I don’t want to go back in my box,’ said the wax doll. ‘It is too dark and quiet. I wish…I wish…’”)

 

 

 

It’s only a matter of time before one of them walked in on the other undressed.

Wonwoo doesn’t turn coy. He doesn’t become embarrassed. He doesn’t have the time to be because Mingyu is just standing there, carved and perfectly still, staring at lines of barcode on his arm. His frown is a cold stain on the warmth radiating from everywhere else.

“Hey bud,” Wonwoo starts carefully. “You doing okay? Finally discovered a working digestive system?”

Mingyu doesn’t flinch, just presses his fingers against the tattoo. “I don’t think I’ll ever have one,” he laments in an attempt at jest. Wonwoo is taken aback at how insincere it sounds.

“Don’t worry, it’s not particularly glamorous.”

“Most things are not.”

“Now you’re just being cynical,” Wonwoo chastises, lips thinning into a shallow curve. The space behind his eyes feels warm, rosy, “And that’s my job.”

Mingyu drops his arm, lifts his eyes to Wonwoo and smiles, too. “Are you worried that robots will take over the job market?”

“If they all looked and acted like you? Probably not.”

“That is a charming thing to say. Unless it was secretly backhanded, then it was not so charming.”

“What makes you say that?”

“As the days pass, you have become,” Mingyu says, reserved and into himself, “More sly.”

It’s clear that Mingyu and his body are not well-conditioned with emotions. Wonwoo suspected this much.

Mingyu’s musculature is still, but his tendons are like strings on a violin strung too tight. Rigidity strikes his jaw like a lightning bolt, but his eyes are glossy and soft. Mingyu’s skin becomes a quilt of polish and gooseflesh and small quivers that make something in Wonwoo’s chest cycle through inflating and squeezing shut.

Without thinking, Wonwoo pulls a towel from the rack, takes three steps forward, and starts drying Mingyu’s hair.

Wonwoo isn’t stupid. He knows what this looks like. Since Mingyu’s appearance, underneath the pretense of detachment, Wonwoo has been aware of Mingyu’s loose, comfortable regard for him and the growing intent behind it.

Wonwoo starts at the crown, gentle and thorough, before silently working his way down the nape and shoulders. Mingyu doesn’t move. Wonwoo doesn’t want him to. There is a thread hanging in the air that has been pulled on both ends to its breaking point, and yet Wonwoo is somehow ambivalent about it staying untouched.

He moves down. No one says a word when this happens. He sweeps at the shoulders, the chest, the arms and the barcode permanently inked onto one of them. Everything beneath the thinning cloth is unforgiving, solid, and obediently unmoving.

The towel moves across the planes of Mingyu’s stomach, near the belly button and the dip of Mingyu’s hips, and—

“Wonwoo.”

In Wonwoo’s peripheral vision, Mingyu’s fingers are shaking but dedicated to staying down.

“Wonwoo,” Mingyu says again, this time hoarse from the breath imprisoned in his throat. _“Wonwoo.”_

For a hysterical moment, Wonwoo wonders: where did Mingyu learn desperation? From Wonwoo? Or on his own?

He straightens himself out to look at Mingyu face-to-face. Mingyu is tall, but that doesn’t mean Wonwoo is short, an observation that feels more apparent now more than ever.

At their distance, Wonwoo can see every detail on Mingyu’s face: a worried pinch between the brows; the varnish of sweat on smooth skin; the slightly-agape mouth of a man who, for the life of him, cannot close it lest he burst from all the yearning he’s built up for too long.  

“What do you want?” Wonwoo murmurs, draping the towel over Mingyu’s tense shoulders.

The better part of Wonwoo is telling him that this is a fucking terrible idea—that fucking a Barbie doll is a half-baked toss at any idealistic romantic desire he’s ever imagined. Nothing more.

“I want to stay,” Mingyu breaths out as if this is the only thought he’s ever had.

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Wonwoo says, “anything is possible when your eyes are closed.”

Mingyu does as he’s told. It’s nothing new. But, in that moment, it becomes a leading torch to something hopelessly wanton in Wonwoo’s ribcage. It’s been waiting there, yearning. For what? Warmth, touch, being wanted by someone else—everything you could possibly imagine from a god damn human being and fuckif Wonwoo doesn’t let them both feel like one.

He brings a hand to Mingyu’s neck, brushing his fingertips against a jugular that doesn’t beat before hooking his hand at the base of Mingyu’s hairline.

“I want you to stay, too,” Wonwoo says before snapping the string.

In the midst of what follows, he vaguely wonders if Mingyu would have snapped it if he had the heart to do so.

 

 

 

(“If you would like to know how winter looks to a doll imagine yourself as looking into a crystal ball…they see the snow and snowflakes through the windowpanes of glass.”)

 

 

 

“Are you dating?”

Wonwoo almost spits his bubble tea. If he did, it would be specifically and strategically angled away from his work uniform and instead at Soonyoung’s face.

“The fuck,” Wonwoo coughs out. “Don’t make me waste my free boba and lunch break on vomiting on you.”

Soonyoung shrugs. “Wouldn’t have been the first time. Anyway, tea for tea. Spill me some.”

“One, that’s the dumbest sober thing you’ve ever said. Two, when did this relationship ever involve equivalent exchange?”

“Mays Hughs deserved better,” Soonyoung sniffs. “Also, rude _,_ I’ve said far worse and more elaborate things.”

“I’m not dating,” Wonwoo states with finality.

“But you’ve got that look, like you want to bike through a park in the spring or have a picnic under the cherry blossoms.”

“I don’t need to know your kinks.”

“You’re living with another guy. Jihoon told me.”

“That bastard,” Wonwoo hisses, not particularly surprised. “At least he just told you. Jeonghan hasn’t kicked my door down.”

“Yet.”

“I’ll holy-water welcome mat.”

“That only works for lesser demons,” Soonyoung reminds him. “You need strong salts and a priest’s blessing for the big stuff.”

“You’re going blow up Jeonghan’s ego and his apparent monopoly over my wellbeing.” Wonwoo starts chewing on a few tapioca bubbles. “Jihoon’s not wrong, there is someone living at my place at the moment. But I’m not dating. It’s complicated.”

“Is it complicated if complication is the default?”

It’s hard to be convincingly irritated whilst drinking bubble tea, but Wonwoo thinks he manages fine.

“What I mean,” Soonyoung says, “is that you should try going with the flow. Things are complicated, sure, but maybe they’ll be simpler if you stop thinking so much.”

“Advice about not thinking sounds appropriate, coming from you.” Wonwoo narrowly avoids a swat from Soonyoung’s curry-stained plastic spoon. “Hey, I thought you were used to my snark.”

“I am,” Soonyoung says, returning to his aggravatingly pungent lunch. “That was for me having to hear your Facebook relationship status from Jihoon instead of directly from you. Anyway, how did it happen? Did you hook up with someone at a bar?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you get hit on at that hipster café you frequently attend to affirm your outdated taste in music?”

“Not with this resting I’m Here for Caffeine, Not Courtship-face.”

“Have you two kissed?”

_“No.”_

“Ooh, that’s your Yes-no.”

Wonwoo groans. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Soonyoung clicks his tongue. “Or perhaps it’s your Whatever Happened or Didn’t, I’m Not Opposed to Doing It Multiple Times Because I’m Enjoying Myself-no. Am I right? Try to tell me I’m not right.”

“You’re not right,” Wonwoo answers, sounding so resolute that Soonyoung deflates. But then Wonwoo surrenders and says, “You’re not right, but you’re pretty damn close.”

 

 

 

Looking back, Wonwoo recalls Mingyu running away a total of two times.

The first time is to investigate a mysterious stray cat often spotted behind the apartment complex. Soojin is in love with the dirty orange thing, and Mingyu is determined to gift it to her. He gets scratched for trying, then licked for trying harder.

“Reminds me of you,” Mingyu says as Wonwoo cleans and wraps up the wound. Wonwoo responds by pinching Mingyu’s arm before rubbing down the soreness.

The second time Mingyu runs away, Wonwoo finds him sitting at an empty bus stop when it’s pouring.

Wonwoo hates being out when it rains. Mingyu knows that. Wonwoo is also pretty sure Mingyu doesn’t know enough about the outside world to actually run away. Mingyu probably knows that, too.

“You’re such a handful,” Wonwoo says without venom. He might even venture to think it was affectionate.

When Mingyu holds out his hand, Wonwoo’s fingers twitch in response. Neither of them moves. Wonwoo can't bring himself to.

“If I really disappeared,” Mingyu says, “would you keep looking?”

Water drips down from the roof of the bus stop. It pools in Mingyu’s hand, crawls through the creases before slipping through the symmetrical gaps. Mingyu stares at his palm. His blinking eyes are the only thing separating him from the lifeless celebrity advertisements behind him.

“I already have,” Wonwoo says. “Let’s go home.”

 

 

 

(“That was the trouble. There was no home.”)

 

 

 

The tail end of summer vacation arrives with the foreboding force of an exploding star.

They both feel it. The knowledge of it is like a distant memory that has only decided to wake up and float to shore.

Wonwoo wakes up two hours too early, strides into the kitchen, and presses himself against the sturdy familiarity of Mingyu’s back. Mingyu turns around, leans against the sink, and lets Wonwoo fall into him. For the rest of the day, they do nothing else but iterations of this.

By the evening, Mingyu has fallen asleep by Wonwoo’s side.

By the morning, Mingyu does not wake up. He is no longer there. In Mingyu’s place, a doll sits, wearing doll-sized versions of Wonwoo’s clothes.

 

 

 

(“‘Things come and things pass,’ said little Mr Plantaganet.

‘Everything, from trees to dolls,’ said Tottie.”)

 

 

 

One and a half seasons, and many fallen leaves, later:

“I wish that limited-edition Barbie was still in production,” says Wonwoo, twirling a highlighter between his fingers.

His exams are over, technically, but the rest of his friends insisted that he at least be moral support (“No matter how little,” Soonyoung interjected) for the rest of the unlucky ones stuck at the rusty round tables outside the university’s closest Starbucks.

“I gave Soojin’s back to her,” Wonwoo explains, “But I think she lost it. That was her favorite doll.”

“The guy one? Mingyu, right?” Jun asks. The name sends a ripple down Wonwoo’s skin. “Aw, is our little Soojin becoming as much of a heartbreaker as her cousin is?”

Wonwoo grimaces. “God, I hope not. Being a heartbreaker isn’t a one-way street.”

“It is if you’re me,” Soonyoung chimes in, toothy, before getting jabbed with Jihoon’s notoriously pointy elbow. “Anyway, I’m sure there’ll be a new one soon. There’s a fast turnaround for pretty toys.”

Wonwoo stays calm because there really isn’t anything else he can be at this point. No one is at fault. He has to keep telling himself this.

“I’m getting another iced coffee. You guys want anything?”

Everyone else is too busy trying not to contract diabetes, leaving Wonwoo with a luckily singular purpose for his trip. It’s not like him to get up just for the sake of getting up, but he’s started doing it since the new semester started.

He’s started doing other things out of character, too, like preparing his own dinners, doing laundry with a different detergent. Wonwoo has even taken in that dingy stray cat Soojin loves so much.

They’re all tributaries to a larger and never-ending thought process in the background of Wonwoo’s mind. He doesn’t want to admit that, at least not out loud.

“That’ll be three thousand won,” says the cash register. “Cash or credit?”

“Credit.”

Wonwoo’s mouth is open, but his mouth didn’t say it. In fact, he was planning on paying with some bills.

“It’s on me,” says the guy behind him, tone warm and almost embarrassed. “With an added latte, please.”

Wonwoo steps away, completely mystified. He doesn’t even notice he’d been staring until the stranger turns to Wonwoo and smiles with teeth that aren't perfectly aligned but Wonwoo thinks it's the cutest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

“I’m also studying outside with my friends,” the guy says as he steps out of the lineup, “so I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

He’s quite a bit taller than Wonwoo, like a refrigerator, and he’s sporting this weird skin color that looks like a suntan washed to ash by the dispiriting nature of winter exam period.

“I recently interned at the Korean headquarters for Mattel, the company that sells Barbie dolls—"

A mole sits on his cheek, alongside some healing acne scars and the smile lines of a person who knows nothing but how to smile.

“—I think I have a few of those limited-edition dolls you were talking about—”

And yet everything behind those eyes is exactly the same.

“—I was actually on the team that helped design and produce them.”

“Huh, that’s interesting,” Wonwoo says, raising his eyebrows. There’s a familiar glow bubbling up from inside him. Maybe it seeps into his face. He hopes it does. “Where did the design inspiration come from?”

“Um, it’s embarrassing to say.” The guy scratches the back of his head, pushes his glasses up his very flushed face. “Oh! Sorry, I completely forgot to introduce myself. I’m a sophomore student majoring in marketing. I transferred to this school only this year. My name is—”

“Mingyu!” calls the employee at the pick-up counter.

If it’s possible, the flush on Mingyu’s face turns even deeper. “So, uh, yeah. That’s my name. I guess you know where the inspiration came from.”

“I guess I do,” Wonwoo says, inclining his head in thanks at the drink. “You know, it’s not particularly kosher to just eavesdrop on another person’s conversation.”

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry, I—”

“And, with this drink you’ve bought me, I’d even say you’re trying to hook me into a date,” Wonwoo says, taking a gratuitous sip.

Mingyu’s smile flattens out a little, but his eyes are just as clear and eager as they’ve always been.

“I’ve been trying to gather up the courage for a while now,” Mingyu confesses. “I saw you showing a little girl around campus at the start of the semester. I couldn’t stop thinking about that. And you.”

There are so many things vying for the forefront of Wonwoo’s mind— _Do you remember me? Of course you don’t, that’s a stupid question. Unless you do? What about Soojin? What are your thoughts on stray cats?_

In the end, Wonwoo decides to say one thing.

“How does dinner sound? I’ll cook.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> drinking game: take a shot every time you find something that sounds remotely like a metaphor about the k-pop idols industry :'^)
> 
> thank you so so much for reading this (and for being patient with my eternal struggle with writer’s block). let me know what you think! x 
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](https://aijee.tumblr.com)


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